July 6, 2023 – Early Morning
Dear Journal,
We made it through the night. But something followed us.
The rest stop felt wrong after what happened with the radio. The air was too heavy, thick with anticipation like a storm that wouldn't break. So before dawn, we packed the truck again. Clara was barely conscious, her small body limp in Nora's arms. Marcus wrapped her in an old quilt and wedged her in the backseat. She didn't stir.
Naomi refused to speak. She took first watch, knife always in hand, and didn't blink for hours. When Marcus and I climbed into the cab, she just climbed into the truck bed and crouched low, facing the treeline. That same dead look in her eyes.
I think part of her didn't expect to survive the night.
We drove fast.
The road was smoother than expected—cracked and overgrown, but clear. Still, none of us relaxed. I kept looking in the side mirror, expecting to see headlights or shadows or something tall and wrong stepping onto the pavement.
At one point, Marcus whispered, "Do you hear that?"
I turned off the radio.
Nothing.
Just the wind and the tires chewing up gravel.
Then—faintly—something like humming. Childlike. Soft.
We stopped the truck.
Naomi climbed down without a word and walked a few steps back along the road. She knelt and touched something on the ground.
A marble.
Bright blue. Unscuffed. Fresh.
Nora gasped. She reached into her coat and pulled out a necklace—handmade with a string of small blue marbles.
Clara's.
One had been missing for weeks.
That's when we heard the footsteps.
Not running. Not shambling.
Walking. One after another. Like boots on tile. Measured. Rhythmic. Coming from the woods on both sides.
Marcus floored it.
We tore away from that stretch of road like hell was at our heels. The truck bounced, tires screaming on turns. Nora cradled Clara, shielding her from the jostling. Naomi clung to the metal bars in the back, eyes scanning, blade drawn.
The humming returned.
But this time, it wasn't coming from behind.
It was coming from inside the truck.
I swear it was Clara.
Her eyes were still closed, her lips unmoving—but the sound was unmistakable. That same soft melody, echoing from her chest.
Nora noticed too. She pressed her ear to the girl's mouth, then slowly backed away, trembling.
"She's humming in her sleep," she whispered. "That's the song I sang to her last night."
No one said a word.
Not until the truck finally coasted into a clearing where a rusted gas station sat nestled between tall pine trees. The sign above it was cracked, unreadable.
We decided to stop and regroup. The engine was overheating, and all our nerves were frayed.
Naomi checked the perimeter.
Marcus inspected the engine.
Nora took Clara inside the gas station and laid her on a dusty couch in the back office.
And I—
I checked the radio again.
It was dead.
Totally fried. No static. No hiss. No feedback.
Just silence.
Until I turned away.
"J.K…"
It whispered again.
No speakers. No wires. Just… the sound of my name breathing through my own skull.
I dropped the radio, backed away. My chest was pounding.
Then, from behind me, Naomi said, "We don't have much time."
She didn't ask what I heard. She didn't need to.
"I saw them," she said. "On the ridge, about fifty yards back."
"How many?" I asked.
She didn't answer.
Just held up her hand and spread her fingers—ten.
All standing in the treeline. Watching. Unmoving.
She said they didn't flinch, didn't blink. Just stood there in that same unnatural stillness like they were waiting for something to give them permission to come closer.
We're deciding now—whether to keep going today or wait until night.
Marcus says if we move now, we might reach South Station before sunset.
But Nora… she doesn't want to move Clara again. Not like this.
She keeps asking the same question:
"What if we're bringing something with us?"
None of us know the answer.
All I know is this:
Something knows my name.
Something has Clara humming songs in her sleep.
And something left her marble in the middle of an empty road—hours from where we lost it.
We'll vote soon. Either we roll the dice and drive or we barricade and pray for daylight.
Both feel like a gamble now.
Yours at the edge,
J.K.